


Some Kind of Intimacy

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Coffee, Dirty Talk, Drug Addiction (mentioned), First Dates, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gender Dysphoria, Gender reassignment surgery, M/M, Past Abuse, Riding, Romance, Strap-Ons, Swimming Pools, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, unsafe binding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-08-28 15:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8451832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Marcus has a secret.





	1. Chapter 1

No one had ever realised before.

Sherlock was stunned they’d never uncovered it–not that he’d have gone out of his way to investigate such a personal matter, of course, but it was a fact of life that secrets that large tended to be unearthed before their time had come.

He, and everybody else, found out during the height of a New York summer. A swimming pool facility, having had a triple murder solved by Gregson’s detectives in the recent past, offered the precinct free entry to their pools. Sherlock, ordinarily, would’ve found the idea of mingling in a germ-infested chlorine water distasteful, but was swayed by the heat. Watson, of course, had needed no convincing.

He and Watson, late due to a prior engagement, had arrived at the pool. Marcus, also late, greeted them at the door. He made a comment about the weather, smiled, but Sherlock didn’t miss the way his eyes tightened, or the forced joviality to his expression.

“You seem nervous,” Watson said carefully, being just as observant as Sherlock, “Everything alright?”

Marcus nodded, and opened his mouth to reply–but he thought better about whatever he was going to say, and instead smiled uncomfortably.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Obviously a lie. Sherlock didn’t comment, and Watson left it alone.

They found an unclaimed corner of the pool to dump their bags; the pool was full of people, splashing and laughing, and a noticeably inordinate number of unaccompanied children that were throwing around beach balls and getting in other peoples’ way. Watson started unbuttoning her loose dress, red polka dot swimmers underneath. Sherlock pulled off his t-shirt, reached for his fly.

Marcus was staring at the pool with what could only be described as fear. Sherlock frowned. As far as he knew, Marcus didn’t have a fear of swimming. Before Sherlock could voice his concern, Marcus sighed, breath shaky, and pulled off his shirt.

Sherlock stared. He couldn’t help it.

Two scars stretched across Marcus’ chest, mirroring one another; below his collarbone, from his armpits to his sternum. Faded, but still prominent.

Mastectomy scars.

Watson had noticed too, but Marcus didn’t meet their eyes. He pulled off his pants, plain black swimmers underneath, and walked towards the pool. A group of detectives in the pool yelled out to him, waving, and Marcus grinned; he ran forward, and jumped into the pool. The other detectives cheered, and Marcus surfaced a few seconds later, laughing.

 

***

 

Sherlock was leaning on the side of the pool, watching Marcus.

His friend. His detective. A man Sherlock had assumed he knew so well–who still, apparently, had the ability to surprise him in ways he couldn’t imagine. And that was purely the reason Sherlock was so struck by this newfound knowledge of Marcus; simply because he had, once again, been caught off-guard by a friend, and reacquainted with his own short-sightedness when it came to the people closest to him. Marcus had always been very private, very conscious of the separation between professional and personal, and Sherlock felt he now knew why that was. There was a depth and complexity here, a history, that Sherlock had no sensed, not anticipated.

He found himself hoping this wouldn’t change anything between them. He hoped Marcus wouldn’t be afraid how they’d react. That Marcus had freely chosen to reveal this part of himself was fortunate; Sherlock hated to imagine Marcus being forced into a spotlight before he was ready.

That said, most of their colleagues appeared not to know what the scars meant. As the evening went on, Marcus became more and more relaxed, laughing and playfully wrestling the other men in the pool.

Sherlock found himself smiling.

 

***

 

Gregson put them on a case, and several days later Sherlock found himself sitting with Marcus, watching a suspect’s house from the car.

After an hour of silence and minimal conversation, Sherlock cleared his throat, fidgeted.

“That was a brave thing you did the other day. At the pool.”

Marcus looked at him, expression blank. He stared for a moment, then looked away again. He gave a small, tight nod.

For a while longer, neither of them spoke.

“I was waitin’ for the right time. Guess I… I didn’t expect it to be this easy.” Marcus licked his lips slowly, face thoughtful. He chuckled to himself and smiled ruefully, “Not even sure anyone knew what the scars meant.”

Sherlock nodded. He did expect the anticlimax would leave one floundering.

They sat in silence, again.

“I’m still the same person.” Marcus’ voice was unsteady, “You get that, right? I’m still Marcus.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied immediately.

Marcus nodded. He seemed unconvinced, and uncomfortable, and Sherlock swallowed hard, trying to understand how to bear the weight of this situation. How to proceed with such a personal, intimate subject of conversation, with a friend he didn’t want to upset any further.

“Look, it’s clear you aren’t used to openly discussing this, so I’ll be brief.”

Marcus reluctantly met his eyes, face set hard. He was volatile. Worried.

“The _only_ thing that has changed,” Sherlock spoke slowly, trying to emphasise every syllable, trying to make Marcus _believe_ him, “is that I respect you even more than I did before.”

“…Why the hell would knowing this make you respect me?”

“Because you’re a strong, proud man. You always have been, and I’ve always admired that.” Sherlock paused. “And, quite honestly, your ability to be certain of who you are, and to pursue that to the fullest extent, is something I greatly envy.”

The animosity faded from Marcus’ expression, and he looked cautiously convinced. He nodded, still somewhat anxious, but there was a small smile on his lips, and Sherlock was relieved.

“…Thanks.” Marcus hedged. “I guess.”

Sherlock nodded. “In the future, if you should ever wish to talk about that part of your life–not that I’m insisting you do–feel free to consider coming to me. It’s apparent you don’t talk about this often.”

Marcus sighed loudly. “No offense or anythin’, but what would you know about… transgender issues?”

The word fell from his mouth oddly, uncomfortably, as if he thought it tasted bad. Sherlock felt a swell of sadness, seeing Marcus’ unease.

“I am not transgender myself, no,” Sherlock replied, “But I can promise I will always be respectful of you, and always make an effort to understand. Listen,” he sighed, “my point, in summary, is that you’re an exceptional man, and a highly skilled detective. That is who you are. And that hasn’t changed.”

Marcus looked out the windscreen again, hands tightening on the steering wheel. Sherlock couldn’t read him. Couldn’t tell whether he was angry, or just uncomfortable.

“…Not at all?” Marcus asked, in a very small voice.

“Not at all,” Sherlock promised.

Marcus nodded. He seemed to be trying very hard not to cry. “…Thanks.”

 

***

 

They didn’t talk about it again, but somehow, their relationship was even closer than before. Sherlock rejoiced, that Marcus was comfortable with him. It was difficult, however, having to watch the way Marcus’ confidence had shrank at the precinct; Sherlock could practically hear his paranoia, the mantra of _do they know, do they know, do they know,_ and he could relate. It reminded him of the paranoia he’d suffered in the height of his addiction, wondering whether every person he saw was his enemy, was going to hurt him. Marcus walked around the precinct like he was afraid someone would attack him, and Sherlock balked as he wondered where that fear had come from. What had happened in Marcus’ past.

But Marcus returned to his self-assured, confident self, and Sherlock could’ve sung praise. Seeing him walk around the precinct with strong, confident strides was possibly the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever experienced. Aside from, of course, the way Marcus stood, a hand on his hip, brushing aside his jacket. Exposing the slender curve of his waist.

Really, nothing had changed.

Sherlock still wanted Marcus just as much as he had before.

 

***

 

They had coffee.

It was under the jurisdiction of a stakeout, for their latest case, but still. Sherlock found Marcus’ company unusually enjoyable. If he’d been the same man he was when he met Irene, he’d have asked Marcus out on a proper date. But their friendship was precious, and Sherlock didn’t wish to risk it on a gamble.

It was a small café, on a corner. Their target was across the road having coffee herself, a tactical NYPD team waiting on standby for when an arms dealer met with her. Sherlock had suggested they meet at the café to watch, for purely voyeuristic purposes. This woman had been hurting quite a few people.

“This,” Marcus said, sitting back in his chair, smirking, “is gonna be real satisfying.”

“I certainly agree,” Sherlock sipped his coffee.

Marcus fell silent, and they both looked out the window at the woman. The atmosphere of the café was relaxed and homely. Sherlock considered it might be an enjoyable place to go in the future.

Marcus was wearing a charcoal-coloured suit. It was cut sharply, enhancing his waist and shoulders, contrasting brilliantly with the stark white suit shirt he wore beneath it. He’d recently gotten his hair trimmed, and he was clean-shaven; just how Sherlock preferred him. It was difficult not to stare.

“You know,” Marcus began quietly, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, “I was real terrified. When I was bein’ framed, and you guys had to investigate me. Thought everyone would find out.”

Sherlock managed to keep the surprise off his face, by a gargantuan effort; it’d been an entire month since they’d discussed this, and he’d assumed Marcus was more comfortable with leaving the topic alone. Touched that Marcus had been comfortable enough to initiate the discussion, Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, and continued watching the woman across the road.

“Yes, I can imagine it would’ve been quite stressful for you.”

Marcus had a pull of his coffee. Swallowed. Fidgeted.

“Wasn’t ashamed. Just wasn’t ready, y’know?”

“Perfectly understandable.” Sherlock paused. “I assume the Captain found out?”

“He did, yeah. Saw the name change,” Marcus sighed, “and my original birth record. I convinced him to keep it quiet.”

Sherlock nodded.

“…Maria Bell.”

Sherlock looked over at him. Marcus’ expression was mournfully affectionate, a sad smile on his face.

“Long time since I’ve said that name out loud.” He looked up at Sherlock, and there was something close to gratitude in his eyes. “Thanks for not askin’, by the way. A lot of people, that’s all they wanna know. What my damn name used to be.”

Sherlock shrugged, unconcerned. “Your past is your business.”

Marcus smiled wider. “Goddamn.”

“What?”

“Nothin’, I just…” Marcus laughed, truly happy, “…wish everybody was as cool with this as you. I mean, people say the words, that it doesn’t matter to them, but… they never mean it. There’s just somethin’ they ain’t ever comfortable with.”

Sherlock smiled, too. It was wonderful to see Marcus laugh about this.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock returned his gaze to the woman, “people can be quite ignorant.”

Marcus nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “You ever even met a trans person before?”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” Marcus shrugged, “seems like you’re just real comfortable, is all.”

“I’ve never felt any animosity towards people just because they’re different. Any reservations I have regarding people I meet come purely from fact and evidence.” Sherlock paused. “I’ve mentioned my housekeeper, Ms Hudson, to you before, yes?”

Marcus frowned. “Uh… you might’ve, yeah. I think.”

“She’s transgender.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows, genuinely shocked. “Really? Huh. You never brought that up before."

“I’ve met many people over the years, all with various sexualities and genders. I don’t feel the need to expose anybody’s private life, especially if I’ve been entrusted with a secret.”

Marcus was silent for a while. Long enough that Sherlock looked over, mildly concerned. Marcus seemed deep in thought.

“When you say ‘met’…” he began, slowly.

“I did sleep with some of them, yes.” Sherlock responded slowly, “Sexual partners have been far more common in my life than friends, I’m sure you’re aware of that after all these years.”

Marcus laughed incredulously. “Okay.”

They both looked out the window, simultaneously. The assault team were tacking the woman and her arms dealer companion to the ground. Sherlock watched without speaking; when he looked back at Marcus, Marcus was staring at him, frowning deeply.

“Ask,” Sherlock suggested flatly.

“Ask what?”

“Whatever’s giving you an aneurism.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows dryly, glaring.

“Go on, Marcus. Our suspect has been detained, no reason to beat about the bush. Hurrah, and all that."

“I dunno, I…” Marcus shrugged, “I guess I just always assumed you were straight.”

There were yells from outside, as the team subdued the suspect and her companion, but Sherlock ignored them in favour of this newest revelation. He gawked at Marcus, truly unable to subdue his bewilderment.

“…How many years have you known me, Marcus?”

Marcus held out his hands helplessly, “We ain’t never discussed it before!”

“I’m hardly a _subtle_ man! Watson complains about it frequently!”

“Well, goddamn, Sherlock,” Marcus shook his head, “so, what, you’re bi? Or whatever?”

“More ‘whatever’ than bisexual.”

Marcus sat back in his chair, frowning quizzically, “How d’you swing, then?”

Sherlock was somewhat entertained by the conversation, amused that it had gone on so long. He and Marcus seldom discussed such things. “In the direction of whomever I find attractive.”

Marcus nodded, appearing equally amused. “Okay.”

“And yourself?” Sherlock drank the rest of his coffee, noticing it was starting to lose its warmth, “If you don’t mind my asking.”

The squad team were moving out, and now it was just him and Marcus, sitting here alone. The poetry of it wasn’t lost on Sherlock. Marcus was slipping his charcoal coat off his shoulders, and the white suit shirt he wore below it clung to his body in the most enticing way. His chest, his shoulders, his arms, filled out the fabric beautifully. Sherlock tried not to look too hard, and was proud that he didn’t entirely fail.

“I dunno,” Marcus said, laying his jacket over the back of his chair, “I guess in whatever direction I like, too.”

Sherlock nodded in approval, putting his empty coffee cup down, “Every human being is on a spectrum of sexuality. I really do detest the idea that base instincts could be classified into ‘types’.”

“I dunno,” Marcus mused, “some people find comfort in it.”

“Some, yes. But classifications can be limiting-”

“-and stereotyping. Yeah,” Marcus raised an eyebrow, dryly, “I know. Trust me.”

Sherlock nodded.

“You just forgot, didn’t you,” awe filled Marcus’ voice, “you totally just forgot that I’m trans.”

Sherlock drew a sharp breath, “I apologise-”

“No, no,” Marcus was smiling affectionately, “It’s… pretty awesome. I’m just… _me,_ to you, and that’s…”

“...nothing less than what you deserve.” Sherlock finished, patiently, “I know exactly who you are, Marcus.”

There was a moment. Even if Sherlock hadn’t possessed exceptional deductive prowess, he would never have been able to miss it; Marcus’ expression went lax with shock, his eyes filled with wonder, his lips parting with a shocked breath. So it wasn’t a shock, then, when Marcus leaned forward, took Sherlock’s face in his hands, and kissed him.

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathed in slowly through his nose. After a full breath, he leaned back, and looked into Marcus’ eyes. Immediately, he mourned Marcus’ soft lips, but he was hypnotised by the dark eyes before him, and spellbound by the intimacy of Marcus’ closeness. He felt a soft breath against his cheek, warm hands curved around his neck.

“…Oh.” Sherlock said, somehow unable to articulate any of the emotions he was currently experiencing.

Marcus sat back, blinking, “Uh… Christ, sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s… quite alright-”

“I should go-”

“Wait,” Sherlock put a hand on Marcus’ arm as he started to stand, shocked to feel his heart beating faster than normal, his throat tight with nervousness, “Marcus, just… wait.”

Marcus sat back down, breathed in shakily, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. For a moment, Sherlock didn’t know what to say, though he was fully aware the situation called upon him to initiate conversation. His mind staggered between what he could possibly say in reaction, but all he could manage was,

“How long have you wanted to do that?”

Marcus swallowed. He was fidgeting, again; a trait decidedly uncommon for him on any other given day. “…Dunno. A while. I guess.”

Sherlock blinked. “How long does… ‘a while’ constitute…?”

“What does it matter?” Marcus demanded.

“Just answer me, Marcus-”

“A year!” Marcus yelled, “Or- Or whatever, Sherlock! I don’t know! It doesn’t matter-”

“It does matter.” Sherlock said, “because…”

Marcus sighed heavily. “You better be gettin’ to the point here.”

Sherlock considered Marcus thoughtfully, and was intensely aware that a great deal hinged on this moment. He had to make a choice.

It took a surprisingly short time before he reached a decision.

He reached up, slid a hand onto Marcus’ neck, feeling the smoothness of his skin, watching the way Marcus’ eyes widened in shock, in disbelief.

“In truth,” Sherlock began, “I found you attractive from the moment I met you.”

Marcus stared, open-mouthed with shock. He didn’t appear to be processing what Sherlock had said. So, for once at a loss for words, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. It was a soft touch of lips, just an expression of his desires, of his intentions. A kiss that Marcus could easily stop, if he wanted.

Marcus leaned back, eyes wide.

“You never said anythin’…” Marcus breathed, “this whole time?”

Sherlock was aware many people in the café were watching them, but he didn’t care. “Neither did you.”

Marcus smirked, “Yeah, s’pose you’re right.”

Sherlock swallowed, nervous and dizzy and elated all at once.

“’Ey,” Marcus frowned, “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. He couldn’t look at Marcus while saying this.

“I’m romantically attracted to you. It seemed easier to conceal my feelings for you than reveal them. The last person I was attached to romantically… was Irene, and… well. You know how that ended.” Sherlock drew a slow breath, “And, of course, I value your friendship above anything else. It didn’t seem worth gambling our relationship on a venture that may not succeed.”

No response. He looked up, and Marcus was smiling widely, shyly.

“Well,” he laughed, “goddamn.”

Not the most articulate response Sherlock had ever received to a dramatic declaration of romantic sentiments, but that didn’t matter. Sherlock smiled widely, twined his fingers nervously in his lap.

“D’you wanna…” Marcus scratched at his neck nervously, “…maybe… go out with me?”

Sherlock smiled shyly.

“I’d like that.”

 

***

 

It was several weeks before they slept together. After a particularly stressful case, Marcus reached for Sherlock’s hand as they left, not caring about the other detectives who might see, not caring that he’d never come out to anyone at the precinct. He’d looked Sherlock in the eye, said, “Come home with me.”

They took a taxi back to Marcus’ apartment. Marcus pushed Sherlock down onto the bed and undressed in front of him, taking his time, encouraged by the hunger in Sherlock’s eyes, the need in his face. Sherlock smoothly pulled Marcus forward by the waist, craning his neck to peer up at him. Marcus climbed onto the bed, knees either side of Sherlock’s waist.

“You’re beautiful,” Sherlock said, and he truly meant it.

He pressed his lips to the scars across Marcus’ chest. Marcus’ hands rose to cup his head, fingers tugging gently at his hair. It was so quiet, like this, so intimate. He breathed softly against the scars, heard Marcus sigh.

“Usually don’t let people touch those,” Marcus murmured. Sherlock looked up at him, enjoying how this felt, with Marcus straddling him, warm above him.

“Would you like me to stop?”

Marcus smiled, tender and amused. “Nah. If I want you to stop anythin’, I won’t be subtle about it.”

“Alright,” Sherlock’s hand wandered down to Marcus’ hip, “as long as you’re certain.”

 

Marcus was vulnerable like this, warm and soft, riding Sherlock slowly, hands braced on Sherlock’s chest. It wasn’t like having sex with a woman, though Marcus did have a vagina. Sherlock was having sex with a man. A beautiful, proud, impossibly attractive man. It was just as perfect as Sherlock had imagined, the numerous times he had glimpsed Marcus’ figure beneath well-cut suits and buttoned-down coats.

He started to sit up, wanting to hold Marcus against him, but Marcus pushed him down, shook his head.

“Like this,” Marcus breathed, “I want it like this.”

Sherlock nodded, breathless, winded, dizzy with the heat of it all. He could do little more than lay back and gasp, shift his hips and relish the noises Marcus made when he did. Marcus hypnotised him; his brown skin, smooth over his built muscles, his slender waist, his round shoulders and his strong, hard thighs. His lips and his neck. His hands and his hips. The dance of his body, the way he moved.

He knew what Marcus was risking, laying himself bare like this, showing his body this way. He repaid the honesty in kind, and didn’t hold back his moans, let every whimper and curse fall from his mouth without hesitation. Every time he made a sound, cried out, Marcus moved faster, fingers pressing into Sherlock’s chest, leaving pink marks over tattoo ink.

“God,” he gasped “god, Marcus,”

Marcus undulated his body smoothly, hips swaying, mouth open, face desperate, “Sherlock,”

Sherlock craned his head back, arched his neck, moaned. He wanted to plead for Marcus to move faster, wanted to tell him, _more._ But he knew this needed to proceed at Marcus’ pace. He knew he needed to take only what Marcus willing to give.

“Fuck,” Marcus hissed, and Sherlock could tell he was close, “fuck,”

He reached down, took Sherlock’s hand, pressed it to his stomach. Slowly moved Sherlock’s hand down, meeting his eyes the whole time, gasping, lower, lower,

“Do it,” he bit his lip, “please,”

Sherlock touched him, relished the way Marcus’ head fell forward, his mouth opening in a helpless gasp, shudders building in his waist and travelling up his spine, until he was trembling, panting,

“Ah,” he whispered, and then he was shaking uncontrollably. Sherlock watched him, throughout it all, dazed by the beauty of it all, the honesty before him, seeing Marcus Bell so intimately. How bare he was, how open, how vulnerable. It was strange, to be thinking this in the midst of sex, when he was so painfully close to release, but Sherlock felt honoured. He felt privileged.

When Marcus fell forward, Sherlock held him, glad to have Marcus pressed against him, having wanted this the entire night. He was gasping, trying not to move, torn between his respect for Marcus’ boundaries and his _need._

Marcus breathed against Sherlock’s neck, gasping, moans broken and helpless.

He stayed there for a while, and Sherlock was content to do nothing, just lay there, buried in the heat of Marcus’ body. But Marcus slid off him, wincing as he did so.

“Sit up,” he said, and Sherlock did. He leaned down, then, wrapping his lips around Sherlock’s cock, swallowing him down in one smooth motion. Sherlock gasped, hands coming up to cup Marcus’ skull.

“You don’t have to,” he gasped, but Marcus only swallowed him deeper in response.

He didn’t last much longer after that.

 

***

 

Marcus wandered out of the shower, wearing a pair of loose shorts and nothing else. Sherlock smiled lazily at him.

“You are spectacular,” he drawled.

Marcus laughed dryly, picked up a t shirt from the floor and pulled it on. He stopped and considered Sherlock; his built body, his pale skin, the way his tattoos curved around his muscles as if to emphasise them. He looked like a lot of the men Marcus had known growing up; gang members, covered in ink, muscular and strong. Violent men. But Sherlock wasn’t violent; he was gentle, kind, and Marcus really hadn’t expected the kind of reverence he’d just been treated with. He wanted to thank Sherlock. He wanted to tell him how much their night together meant, and how he hoped they’d have so many more like it.

But he didn’t. He figured that would come later.

Instead, he lay down on the bed, rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

“Yeah,” he smiled, “you ain’t so bad yourself.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: since writing this, i've come out as a trans man, have changed my name, use he/him pronouns, and taken a lot of steps. writing a trans character nowadays, there's probably no way i'd include their deadname. while i don't think i approached this story _wrong_ , per se, i do think i'd do it differently now. so just keep in mind this fic was written by a confused, closeted, still-exploring boy lmao. i was still figuring everything out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains unsafe binding practices. I included the use of bandages in order to capture what many trans/genderqueer people go through when they initially start binding– but you should NEVER bind with bandages. Stay safe, guys. Go for gc2b or Underworks binders instead, if you can.

Sherlock stared at the photograph.

It was a polaroid, frayed at the edges, yellowed from age. A picture of Marcus, floating in the frame like some kind of ghost, his face younger and smoother and more feminine. Bandages were wrapped around his chest, and it looked painful, the way his breasts had been flattened, the way the fabric cut into his skin. His body was shaped differently, his legs and arms less defined, his thighs softer and rounder. But his chin was raised defiantly, anger fresh and rebellious in his eyes. He looked strong. Scared, but strong.

Sherlock had thought it might be odd, seeing photos of Marcus pre-transition, but there was no doubt in his mind that this was a picture of a young man. No matter what body he’d been born in.

“Andre took that picture.” Marcus was draped beside Sherlock, propped up on his elbow, the scars across his chest stretching with the angle of his upper body. “He was there for me when no one else was.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. He turned the photo over, saw the words on the back, scrawled in blue biro pen; _128 days to top surgery._

“I’ve never shown anyone this before.”

Sherlock reached over, took Marcus’ hand. Squeezed his fingers gently, just to reassure him.

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-seven,” Marcus sighed, “I’d run away from home five years earlier. Worked three jobs, saved up every penny I earned. Hardest thing I ever fuckin’ did, working towards my transition.”

“But you did it.” Sherlock reminded him quietly. Marcus smiled, leaned over, and kissed him.

“I sure did.”

 

Sherlock fell asleep, and Marcus pulled the photo out from between his limp fingers. He stared at the person in the picture, and felt something close to pride, as well as something not too far from sadness. He’d burned all the other photos. All the pictures of Maria. This one was the only one he could stand; at least he was half whole in this image.

He didn’t want to tell Sherlock the whole story, because he couldn’t speak the words aloud. Couldn’t tell the horror stories. Couldn’t describe the beatings, the humiliation, the torture his father had put him through. But he knew he didn’t have to, because Sherlock was smart.

He knew. Even if Marcus hadn’t told him.

Marcus put down the photograph, sighed, folded his hands over his stomach. Stared ahead blankly, without seeing anything at all. Some nights he would relive the memories, and the nightmares would come. Then, the shaking, the trembling, the hot flashes of terror. He would feel so alone and afraid, so alien in his own skin, so _angry_ that he’d come this far and his body still felt _wrong,_ because the world treated him like he was a freak– even though he was a good cop, who did honest work and helped people _._ He would lay there and wonder, _why was I born a girl? Why did God do this to me? Why did I have to go through that?_

Those nights, he would feel so alone.

He rolled onto his side, moved closer. Laid his head on Sherlock’s chest, breathed out, relished the softness of skin against his face. He clung to the warmth of another human being beside him, and something dislodged inside him, something came loose in his chest. Tears prickled, hot and wet in his eyes, as he smiled.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He didn’t know whether Sherlock heard him, but that was okay.

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Maria looked at her reflection, and saw someone else._

_The bandages cut into her skin, and she couldn’t breathe properly. But something felt right. Something had fallen into place perfectly, and she could feel the power building in her chest, could feel the confidence filling her, radiating from somewhere deep, deep inside. From that place within her that had been damaged for so long._

_She had stolen her brother Andre’s clothes. They were too big, and they hung off her too much, and the pants didn’t sit right; but she saw a man standing before her. She reached up, pulled her hair into a tight bun, and fit Andre’s snapback over her hair. She slid on a pair of his reflective sunglasses._

_Then, she just looked._

_She didn’t recognise the person that stood before her, but she felt like she’d known him all her life. He’d been waiting for her, waiting to be realised._

_“Marcus,” she whispered._

_“Hey Maria,”_

_She froze. In the mirror, she could see Andre, standing in the doorway to her room. She swallowed hard, fists bunching by her side, her heart spiralled into a fast, frenzied beat. Panic prickled over her skin, a hot flash of hysterical terror._

_Andre stood still, eyes wide. He hesitated for a moment, long enough that Maria felt like vomiting._

_Then, he slowly closed the door._

_“I… I can explain, Andre, I was just-” Maria held her hands out, her arms shaking; she reached up, yanked off the snapback, pulled the glasses off her face, “I was just…”_

_“’Ey, Maria, calm down, a’ight,” Andre slowly walked forward, “you think I haven’t noticed?”_

_Maria went to pull off the oversized t-shirt she was wearing, but remembered the bandages she had strapped over her chest, and instead crossed her arms tightly, hoping her brother wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t realise-_

_“Maria,” Andre walked up to her, took her shoulders, “calm down.”_

_She took a deep, trembling breath. She was shaking, looking at the ground, unable to meet his eyes._

_“I don’t give a shit what you wear.”_

_She sucked in a breath. Shook her head._

_“Look,” Andre’s voice was earnest, desperate, “I really don’t mind. You can wear my clothes. But you and I know both know you’ve gotta keep this quiet until you’ve moved out. Otherwise, dad’s gonna beat the shit out of you.”_

_“More than he already does?” Maria asked, laughing breathlessly, almost hysterical. The thought of her father was suffocating._

_Andre slid his hands onto her shoulders. She stared off to the side, jaw clenched._

_“Maria. Maria, look at me.”_

_She shook her head. “I don’t want to be called that any more. I want,” she sucked in a trembling breath, and closed her eyes. She felt a curl of hair fall down her forehead, and she hated it. She hated being a girl. She just wanted this to be over. She wanted to run away. She wanted to escape, and become someone else. She had dreams about one day waking up as a boy, and whenever she woke up she’d cry, because it hadn’t happened._

_“Tell me. Tell me what you wanna be called, and I’ll call you it.”_

_She shook her head again. Andre’s hands tightened on her shoulders._

_“Please. I’m your brother, and you can fuckin’ trust me. You know you can.”_

_She thought of all the times Andre had intervened, all the times he’d stepped between their father and their mother, and caught a fist on the jaw for his troubles. She thought of all the times he’d collected the broken glass and crushed beer cans off the floor, movements heavy with weary exhaustion, one side of his face darkened by bruising that swelled his eyes and split his lips._

_She looked up at him, then, and saw the desperate honesty in his face. And she believed him._

_“Marcus.” She felt her lips shake, her voice tremble. “I… wanna be called Marcus.”_

_Andre smiled. “See? Was that so hard?”_

_She laughed, and felt tears in her eyes._

_“Come on, come on. Don’t cry.”_

_He pulled her close, and she hugged him hard, burying her face in his chest and wishing, wishing so hard, that she had his body, that she could look like him._

 

***

 

Marcus opened his eyes.

He looked across the bed and saw that Sherlock was fast asleep, lying on his side. His eyes were flickering gently as he dreamed. Marcus wondered what he dreamed about. Whether he was haunted by the past too.

Marcus sat up and leaned forward, head in his hands. He wasn't crying, because he'd gone to bed the night before expecting this. He slowly slid out of bed, trying not to wake Sherlock, hoping to god Sherlock hadn't organised anything for the day to come.

Fuck. He hated birthdays.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone reading this who is suffering gender-related pain or navigating their own transition journey, you're in my thoughts, and I know how hard it is. Today, I had to accept I couldn't bind my chest, because it caused me such physical pain. Even as I write this I'm in discomfort. But I'm gonna dress the way I want anyway, despite the fact I can't have a flat chest. I love who I am, and that's all that matters.
> 
> I'm gonna keep writing this fic, because it's very important to me. And I hope that you can find your own happiness, and learn to love your body no matter what anyone says.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed across the empty bed.

He’d heard Marcus leave, but he’d pretended to stay asleep. He knew Marcus would need time and space enough to emotionally prepare himself for the day ahead. Marcus had gotten progressively more and more agitated and pensive as his birthday approached, and several of the specific triggers he’d reacted to suggested to Sherlock that his previous birthdays had been ruined by familial violence.

Sherlock shifted on the bed, brought a hand up to his face. He rubbed at his eyes, and considered how he may negotiate the day ahead. He wanted today to be good for Marcus, but he didn’t want to upset him by trying too hard. Marcus had a great amount of pride. He wouldn’t want to be coddled.

He got out of bed, dressed in jeans and a loose white suit shirt. He rolled up the sleeves of the shirt, because he knew how much Marcus favoured outfits which exposed his tattoos. It was odd for Sherlock, to do such things; he was unaccustomed to such quaint niceties, and still getting used to how much he wanted to please Marcus.

Sherlock came down into the kitchen, and found Marcus pouring coffee. He was wearing a suit, and Sherlock’s eyes wandered down to his slender waist, how his belt curved temptingly around his body. He really did wonder, sometimes, how he’d been lucky enough to deserve Marcus Bell.

“Good morning,” Sherlock greeted him softly, smiling. Marcus glanced over and smiled flatly. Sherlock walked up to him, pressed a light kiss to his mouth. “Happy birthday,” he added quietly, one hand rising to touch against the small of Marcus’ back.

Marcus sighed against his mouth, and shook his head minutely. He kissed Sherlock back quickly, and then pulled away. Sherlock, receptive to Marcus’ blatant signals, stepped away.

Marcus returned to making the coffees, and Sherlock leaned his hip against the bench.

“Will you be heading into the precinct today?”

“Yeah,” Marcus passed him a coffee, and wandered over to the kitchen table. Sherlock followed him, “better to be at work than sittin’ around doin’ nothin’.”

Sherlock nodded. “Alright.”

There was a stretch of silence, as they both sat and drank their coffees.

“I am aware that you do not enjoy celebrating your birthday.” Sherlock said, keeping his voice gentle, “but would you mind if I gave you a present?”

Marcus looked at him glumly. “I dunno.”

Sherlock nodded. “It can wait, if you like. Until tonight.”

Marcus sighed miserably. “You’re makin’ me feel like an asshole.”

“That-” Sherlock fidgeted, “That is not my intention. I only wish to put you at ease.”

“I know, I know. Jesus, you’re too fuckin’ good for me.” Marcus sat back in his chair, and smiled tiredly. “I’m sorry. Y’know I really appreciate you, right?”

Sherlock smiled, and nodded. “And I you.”

Marcus’ smile grew, became genuinely happy. “You’re so sappy when you wanna be.”

In lieu of answering that, and in favour of hiding his blush, Sherlock looked down as he rummaged around in his jeans pocket. He pulled out a small white business card, and held it towards Marcus. With a frown, Marcus took it and peered at the small black letters printed on it.

“Doctor Anderson, New York Specialist.” He looked up from the card, frowning deeper now. “What is this?”

Sherlock licked nervously at his lip, and fidgeted again. He still wasn’t sure whether this was a good idea.

“Doctor Elizabeth Anderson is a personal friend of mine. I solved a defamation case, several years ago, wherein someone was trying to discredit her professionalism and medical competency because they believed the work she was doing was wrong. When, in fact, what she does is revolutionary. And highly respectable.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “…Y’lost me.”

“She’s a specialist in surgical alteration, Marcus. Transgender surgeries, in particular.”

Marcus’ expression slackened in shock. Sherlock thought the card might slip out of his fingers.

“…What?”

Sherlock looked down at the table. “I’m sorry if it’s a presumptuous thing to give you, because I am aware you may not desire any additional surgery– and it’s entirely your prerogative, I absolutely understand that. I’m not at all suggesting that you _should_ get more surgery. I just thought, if it is something that you need, I should provide you with the financial means to satisfy that need.”

Marcus didn’t reply. Sherlock looked up again, and found Marcus staring at him in absolute shock.

“I can’t…” Marcus’ voice was flat with shock, “I couldn’t ask you to pay for somethin’ like that. I… I’m not a charity case. You… You don’t need to do that.”

Sherlock nodded with calm understanding. “I know. But I have money, Marcus; too much of it. Better that it be used for something good than just be sitting there.”

“Yeah, but,” Marcus put down the card, “that kind of operation, it-”

“I would do it for you, Marcus. I could have the appropriate funds set aside within a day.”

“This,” Marcus seemed utterly stunned, his dark eyes wide with cluelessness as to how to respond, “I… Sherlock, you can’t just…”

Sherlock leaned forward. Slid his hand on top of Marcus’, gently, carefully. Watched the way Marcus swallowed, nervous and unsure what to say. But he could see hope, excitement, and amazement slowly blooming in Marcus’ expression. Sherlock smiled, and let his eyes soften, let affection fill his face.

“If this is what you want,” he smoothed his thumb over Marcus’ knuckles, “I will give it to you.”

Marcus’ lips trembled, and he reached up to press a hand to his mouth. He was starting to laugh, and there were tears in his eyes.

“No way. No goddamn way, Sherlock, you can’t just,” he laughed, grinning widely, “oh my god, are you serious?”

Sherlock grinned. “Have you ever known me to joke about serious matters?”

Marcus laughed louder, crying now. “I dunno, your sense of humour is pretty wacked.” He shook his head, and stood swiftly; he grabbed Sherlock by his shoulder and hauled him to his feet, pulling him into a tight hug. Sherlock embraced him, closed his eyes.

“I want this to be the best birthday you’ve ever had,” he murmured.

Marcus sniffed. “Shit, I reckon you’ve already succeeded," he whispered.

Sherlock stroked the back of his head tenderly.

“Are you sure?” Marcus breathed. “Are you sure you’d do that for me?”

Sherlock didn’t even need to consider the answer. “Yes. Of course.”

Marcus held him tighter.

They stood there for a long time.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based largely around my own experiences with gender; I fully understand the diversity of identities and experiences, and please know I am not attempting to speak for all trans people in this fic. I just wanted to write something that showed a trans character being beautiful, appreciated, and sensual~  
> I hope you enjoy <3

 

Sherlock sat with his arm around Marcus’ shoulders.

It was a bold move, one that had caused the other detectives to pause and look twice, eyes flickering over to them occasionally throughout the evening’s birthday celebrations. At first, Marcus had sat rigidly and uncomfortably, and Sherlock had been tempted to remove his arm– but Marcus had told him that tonight was when he wanted to properly come out, to make it obvious to everyone. So Sherlock stayed where he was. Like Marcus needed.

As the night went on and the conversation became looser and louder, Marcus relaxed. He leaned into Sherlock, warm with laughter, their sides touching. He finished two beers. Let his hand stray onto Sherlock’s thigh, sitting comfortably. Sherlock felt blissful. He had never personally felt the need to come out publicly, but the fact that Marcus had conquered this milestone felt like a personal victory; he was proud of Marcus. He was proud of _them_.

“’Ey,” Marcus murmured, as he put his freshly emptied beer glass onto the table, “my mom’s havin’ my birthday lunch tomorrow. You wanna come?”

Sherlock looked over at him, tried not to let nervousness show on his face. The prospect of meeting Marcus’ family was a scary one, and he had a recurring paranoia that he wouldn’t be good enough. That he’d be too uptight, too polite, too… _English_.

“I’d love to,” he replied quietly, with a smile that was probably unconvincing.

Marcus grinned, his eyes hooded and tired. He leaned over, kissed Sherlock on the lips.

“You’ll do great,” Marcus whispered.

He pulled away, and Sherlock looked around the table, realising everyone was now watching them. He felt a swell of annoyance in his chest, and tightened his hand unconsciously where it hung from Marcus’ shoulder. Fierce protectiveness, the kind he frequently struggled to contain, filled him. He opened his mouth to deliver a cutting insult to the hoard of policemen, but then one of the detectives– a man whom Sherlock had never interacted with personally– spoke up.

“You know,” the man slurred, raising a glass, “you two are fucking amazing. Two of the best guys in the whole damn precinct. Waddaya say, boys? A toast to these amazing motherfuckers.”

The ‘boys’ raised their glasses in a toast- the gathered company in fact being a mix of both male and female- and let out a hollered cheer. Marcus laughed, relaxing again, and Sherlock let his fist fall limp. He swallowed tightly, and nodded to himself. He wasn’t comfortable here. He’d come because this was Marcus’ birthday, and he wanted to make Marcus happy, but this was a bar, and being surrounded by intoxicated people brought back bad memories. Bad inclinations.

He knew he’d just have to speak the word, and Marcus would understand him needing to leave. But he wanted to stay. He wanted to be able to cope with this.

“So, have you always been into men, or what?” the detective continued, leaning forward across the table to where Marcus sat, “I never could tell.”

“That’s not a polite question to ask.” Sherlock coolly answered for Marcus.

“Yeah,” Marcus smiled uneasily, “reckon that’s my answer too.”

“Ah Christ man, sorry, ‘course that isn’t appropriate.” The detective laughed, too loud, and leaned back in his chair. “Fuck.”

“Think you might’ve had one too many,” Gregson said with a pitying kind of fondness, slapping a hand onto the detective’s shoulder, “why don’t I call you a cab, huh?”

The detective sighed heavily. “Sure.”

As Gregson and a few of the other detectives led the man away, Sherlock shifted in his seat, and found himself looking hopefully towards the exit, trying to calm the oddly frenzied beating of his heart. Navigating his relationship with Marcus was hard enough, without being in an eatery that served alcohol like any other restaurant would serve water. He could smell it in the air. Sharp, heavy, sickening. Intoxicating.

“Shame Joan couldn’t make it.” Marcus mused.

“She got called away on a case, unfortunately,” Sherlock looked down at the table, closed his eyes with a pained grimace, “Marcus-”

“It’s okay.” Marcus interrupted quietly.

Sherlock looked over at him, stunned. Marcus smiled– and the way his eyes softened, the loving warmth in his face, made Sherlock’s chest hurt in the most beautiful way.

“I’m sorry, I just… with the alcohol, and-”

“I know. It’s okay.” Marcus took his hand under the table. “I know.”

 

***

 

Sherlock went back to the brownstone and tidied it within an inch of its life. He didn’t often compulsively clean when nervous, but he needed something to do with his hands, and he did want the place looking presentable when Marcus came home to what Sherlock hoped would be a romantic night.

As the evening ticked on, one and then two hours passing, Sherlock became more and more worried about what state Marcus would be in when he finally returned. He didn’t want to hold Marcus up as he stumbled drunkenly through the door. He didn’t want to kneel by a toilet as Marcus vomited. He didn’t want to see Marcus like that, and remember the days he’d spent in shooting galleries, surrounded by the living dead; by people who had grey skin, soulless eyes, battery acid for veins, and nothing but churning air in their shrunken stomachs.

Inebriation terrified him.

He knew that drinking alcohol was something that most people did commonly, and without a second thought. And he knew, logically, that a night out wouldn’t do Marcus any harm. He knew that he was over-thinking, and overreacting.

But that awareness didn’t ease his fears at all.

 

***

 

Marcus gazed out the window at the brownstone as Gregson parked the car.

“Well,” Gregson said, tapping his hands on the steering wheel absent-mindedly, “here we are.”

Marcus looked over at him, and grinned. “Thanks for the ride.”

Gregson smiled, and Marcus thought that, if he’d ever had a father who’d cared about him, maybe that would’ve been how he’d have looked at his son. He yearned, suddenly, for a life he’d never had, and for a father who’d loved him for who he was, not for the body he’d been born in.

“Have a good night, Marcus,” Gregson said, with quiet affection in his voice, “and say hi to Sherlock for me.”

Marcus nodded, wishing they were standing so that he could hug him. “Thanks, Captain.”

He got out of the car, waved as Gregson departed. He walked up the brownstone door, knocked, and waited. When Sherlock opened the door, his face was tight and worried. Marcus frowned at him as he walked inside.

“Hey,” he said cautiously as Sherlock closed the door, “what’s up?”

Sherlock considered him, clenching his jaw periodically. He inhaled, trying to make the action subtle, but Marcus noticed. He realised Sherlock was trying to gauge how drunk he was by smelling him.

“I only had three beers, Sherlock,” Marcus shrugged off his jacket, put it on the hooks by the door, “What, you really think I’d come home to you wasted?”

Sherlock took a shaky breath, and Marcus could see the relief in his face, the relief that he didn’t have to tiptoe around the problem.

“You have every right to go out and enjoy yourself. It’d your birthday. I wouldn’t have held it against you.”

Marcus chuckled. “I would’ve.”

“You shouldn’t have to feel that way,” Sherlock mumbled, looking down.

“Hey,” Marcus took Sherlock’s face between his hands, “look at me.”

Sherlock did, unwillingly. Marcus saw shame in his eyes.

“Your boundaries are your boundaries, Sherlock– just like I’ve got my triggers, you do as well. I respect that.” He paused, smiling, stroking a thumb over Sherlock’s cheek. “This mornin’, you offered me somethin’ absolutely… perfect. I mean… shit, Sherlock, _you’re_ perfect. You’re everythin’ I want. And fuck, I’ve never liked gettin’ wasted, you know that. Who cares if I can’t stay out and drink? I don’t want to anyway. I’d rather be here with you.”

Sherlock blinked. His cheeks went pink, and he moved closer in one smooth motion, pressing their mouths and bodies together. Marcus moved one hand around to hold Sherlock’s neck, rested his other hand against Sherlock’s waist.

“I want you to fuck me tonight,” Sherlock breathed.

Marcus felt a flutter of heat in his chest. He kissed Sherlock deeper, and slowly turned them around. Sherlock’s back made a quiet thud against the wood of the door, and Marcus’ hand slid from Sherlock’s waist to his ass. They kissed faster, harder, Sherlock’s tongue wet and hot. Marcus pressed against him, could feel Sherlock’s hipbones through low-strung jeans.

He wondered, dazedly, what the fuck he’d done to deserve this.

 

***

 

They went to Sherlock’s bedroom, where Sherlock had prepared everything already. Marcus really wished he could’ve just fucked Sherlock against the door– he imagined, for a moment, having a penis. How powerful he’d feel, if he could’ve taken Sherlock right there like he’d wanted. If he could’ve lifted Sherlock’s legs around his waist, and watched the way Sherlock would’ve scrambled for purchase, head thrown back with a cry of pleasure and pain.

He secured the strap-on, kneeling on the bed, and looked over at where Sherlock lay, naked and unashamed of his body. Marcus was inspired by Sherlock’s confidence, encouraged by his pride and his unapologetic sexuality. It was both reassuring and attractive.

“I like the way the straps look around your waist,” Sherlock breathed, an almost rabid look of desire in his eyes, “around your hips.”

Marcus, suddenly, was filled with a strange sense of satisfaction; he didn’t mind not having a penis, in that moment, and couldn’t find the will to be sad in the face of the attractive man who was looking at him as if he were the most beautiful thing on the planet. He smirked, and slid his hand up and down the black shaft, like he was jacking off. Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement, and the way that he bit his bottom lip made Marcus wet.

“You want me to fuck you?” Marcus asked, moving forward, leaning over Sherlock and kissing him. “You want me inside you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, arching upwards, hands pressed against Marcus’ back, “I already prepared myself.”

“Shit, Sherlock,” Marcus laughed. “You’re so slutty sometimes.”

“I never pretended otherwise.”

Marcus hummed in agreement, reaching a hand between Sherlock’s thighs, breath catching when Sherlock spread his legs. He continued kissing Sherlock as he gently probed him, finding that he was, indeed, already loosened. He felt a spark in his chest when Sherlock’s breath stuttered in a quiet gasp, his hips involuntarily jerking upwards as Marcus massaged his prostate. He adored this. This quiet intimacy, this beautiful trust.

“I love looking at you,” Marcus told him with hushed words, “I love your body. Your tattoos. Shit, all of you, Sherlock. I love it all.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you,” Sherlock whispered, “now, please fuck me.”

Marcus laughed delightedly as he leaned over, reached across to the bedside table where– predictably– Sherlock had left the lube.

He took his time, preparing Sherlock more than he probably needed. But he wanted this to feel good. He wanted this to be slow, to be perfect. And Sherlock seemed to know that; he didn’t complain and demand for Marcus to hurry, he just kissed and whined and gasped, lying there and letting Marcus pepper his body with kisses and lazy bites. He was a beautiful submissive. Marcus loved being like this, being dominant. He’d never had this with anyone else.

“Please,” Sherlock eventually whispered, eyes closed, his mouth open with desperate abandon, “please.”

Marcus would’ve loved to tease him, but he was too impatient. He curled his hands under Sherlock’s thighs, spread his legs further, and kissed him softly. He slicked up the strap-on with more lube before he slowly, carefully, pressed into Sherlock. He loved the way Sherlock stiffened under him.

“Ah,” Sherlock gasped, a moan catching in his throat and coming out more high-pitched than usual, “Ah- Marcus, Marcus,”

“I wish I could feel you,” Marcus breathed against his cheek, “I wish I could feel what it’s like inside you.”

Sherlock hissed in a sharp breath. Marcus pulled back, lifted himself up onto his elbows.

“Are you okay?”

Sherlock looked up at him, face reddened, panting.

“Hey, hey,” Marcus stroked his cheek, “breathe for me. Just breathe.”

“It feels,” Sherlock’s face tightened with desperation, whispering the words as if they were a secret, “it feels so _good_ , Marcus,”

“Tell me.” Marcus slowly moved his hips, backward then forward, watched the way Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered, “tell me what it feels like.”

“It feels,” Sherlock’s words were breathless and strung together, almost slurred, “it feels like… you’re filling me up, and– and it’s… I love it, Marcus, I love it-”

He cried out when Marcus thrust his hips deep, his cry hitting the air loudly.

“Yes,” he breathed, “ _yes,”_

Marcus moved again, harder this time. He could see Sherlock coming undone, and he loved it. He adored it. He was on fire, burning up with it.

He never wanted this to end.

 

***

 

Marcus came before Sherlock did.

His hips stuttered to a halt, his body tensing up, racked with shudders. He bowed over Sherlock, his face pressed into the pillow beside Sherlock’s head, gasping. After he was finished he looked down at Sherlock, panting. He felt a thrill when he saw the wonder and awe in Sherlock’s expression, as if his orgasm meant something spectacular.

“We can stop,” Sherlock breathed, “if you like.”

Marcus shook his head, moved his hips again, and by the way Sherlock shook it was obvious he was close.

“No. No, I’m not done.” Marcus knew Sherlock liked it when they talked dirty. “And you still want me to fuck you, right? You still want me to make you come.”

Sherlock dazedly nodded, loose-limbed and vulnerable. “Yes. Yes, please.”

“How do you want it? Huh? You want it slow? You want me to take you apart like this?” Marcus slowed his pace, took Sherlock’s cock in his hand, “Make you beg for it?”

“No, Marcus, please just-”

“What do you want?”

“Hard,” Sherlock’s voice was unsteady, “I want it _hard-”_

Marcus grabbed onto Sherlock’s hips, hoisted his body higher, and started fucking him. The wet slapping noise of lube and come filled the air.

“Like this? You want it like this?”

Sherlock couldn’t reply with words, could only make senseless moans and cries. He gripped the pillow under his head like he was holding on for dear life.

“Fuck, yeah, you love it, don’t you. Look at you. So fucking beautiful.” Marcus wanted to touch him, to kiss him and bite him, but he left his hands where they were and did nothing but absolutely pound Sherlock’s body. In this moment, he had never felt more like a man, had never felt stronger or more powerful. Sherlock whimpered, and the sound made Marcus move even faster.

Sherlock didn’t last long.

When he came, he made a broken, helpless noise. He trembled through his orgasm for almost a full minute before going limp, head falling to the side. Marcus lay against him, kissed him sloppily.

“I almost want you to keep going,” Sherlock mumbled, “feels so good, Marcus.”

Marcus wanted that too, but he knew that kind of over-stimulation was something they’d need planning and a safeword for.

“Another night, baby,” he replied. Sherlock hummed in agreement and understanding.

They lay there for a while longer, panting, before Marcus pulled out. Sherlock winced, and Marcus began undoing the straps that had started to pull uncomfortably at his skin.

“You alright?” Marcus asked, noticing his discomfort, “Does it hurt?”

“Yes, but I rather enjoy that, if you recall my preferences.” Sherlock sat up, sliding back to lean against the headboard of the bed. His posture was lazily hunched, and his face looked almost drugged in its euphoria. His contented expression filled Marcus with bliss, and with pride.

“I love having sex with you,” Marcus moved over to sit next to him, cuddling against him with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, “you know that, right?”

Sherlock’s arm rose to hold him, just like he’d held him the restaurant. “I do know that. And I feel the same.”

“No, but I…” Marcus swallowed, “I _really_ like it. With you, I feel…”

He paused.

“I feel like a man,” he finished.

They sat there for a quiet moment, considering the weight of that statement.

“And I know I _am_ a man, I have no doubt about that. What I mean, is… when I have sex with you, I… I feel good. Before I met you, I thought… I thought I’d never be able to have sex and enjoy it, because I’d always feel wrong. I’d always hate my body. But now, I… I don’t know whether I need that surgery. I feel whole. I feel…”

Sherlock sat in silence, and waited for Marcus to collect his thoughts. Marcus loved that about him. He was so patient. So ready to listen.

“…I feel complete, Sherlock.” Marcus said. He smiled, tears suddenly filling his eyes.

“I’m glad,” Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “I’m so glad, Marcus.”

“I love you,” Marcus lifted his head, looked into Sherlock’s eyes, “I love you.”

Sherlock stared back at him, and, without even a second of hesitation, said, “I love you too.”

Marcus kissed him.

He thought of everything he’d been through. All the suffering, all the pain and the struggles.

And he knew it had all been worth it.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

POSTSCRIPT

 

It's been a very long time since I wrote this story, in more ways than one. I've come out to myself, to my family, and to my friends. Writing this story, and re-imagining Marcus as a transgender man, was one of the fantasies that helped me to realise that I am transgender myself. It might sound silly, but having the space to explore stories around gender and transitioning really helped save me when I didn't have the courage to turn my gaze inward. Even though my writing skills have vastly improved, I'm still very proud of this fic. So thank you to everybody that read this story! Thank you to everyone who commented, contacted me on tumblr, or left kudos! I hope this story helped somebody out there feel normal and accepted. It's important that we don't feel alone, or abnormal. You're all beautiful. You're all perfect. And I wish you all the happiness in the world.

Here's a couple of sketches of trans!Marcus, who I hope to continue writing someday. Apologies for the lacking quality; I was just eager to reconnect with this wonderful character <3

 

 


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